


The Long Way Round

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Romantic Overtures, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: He set the box of chocolates down in the passenger seat as he dealt with his second thoughts. Then he picked it up again. Then put it down. This was foolish. The wine joined the chocolates next, discarded in his doubt, and before he could think about it again, before third - or fourth - guessing himself, he shut off the car and climbed out.
Relationships: Jim Strange & Everyone, Margaret Crowther/Bernard Crowther, Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse, Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	The Long Way Round

Morse sat in the driver’s seat of the Jag, parked on a quiet hedge-lined residential road, and stared at the two items in his hands. One was a bottle of wine. Red. Something of which he had only the most basic of knowledge. It had been a suggestion of a very helpful shop clerk, something versatile and not too sweet or too dry, that would easily compliment nearly any meal with a full flavor of its own. But red. Morse had insisted it be red.

The other was a rectangular box of chocolates, also red, wrapped in nothing more than a thin silver ribbon and affixed with an embossed stickered seal bearing the pressed logo of Creswell’s. He’d snorted when he'd first picked it up, at the small print along the bottom edge - _Crafted Lovingly by Master Confectioners_. Morse had seen the factory once upon a time, met what remained of the Creswell family, and knew very well that they were the farthest from masters of anything but their own wealth. Still, the company managed to churn out a halfway decent assortment when one needed it.

 _La Traviata_ had felt like the right mood for this Valentine’s day, deepest love and and equal loss, but now as he sat there and stared at the tokens in his hands and the company of the first act sung out _‘Che è ciò?’_ through his car stereo, Morse wondered as well, what exactly was all this?

He set the box of chocolates down in the passenger seat as he dealt with his second thoughts. Then he picked it up again. Then put it down. This was foolish. The wine joined the chocolates next, discarded in his doubt, and before he could think about it again, before third - or fourth - guessing himself, he shut off the car and climbed out. Morse crossed the road, passed through a nondescript front gate, and found himself looking towards the familiar rose wound trellis and ivy blanketed facade of Max Debryn’s home.

Max Debryn, the intensely private perennial bachelor. Max Debryn, too intelligent to suffer fools or his personal relationships lightly. Max Debryn, one of the few people whom he could claim to be a friend - one of his greatest friends. Max Debryn, whom he’d secretly held a torch for for years at this point.

Max Debryn, with whom the time was never right.

It always came back around to work with Morse, to time, to his own wandering eye and bad decision making. But Max knew it, he always knew, and he humoured him and ribbed him about it and sometimes smiled at him in a private way that fluttered through him and made him feel like maybe - another day - a better day - they might...

Morse was halfway down the path when he realized there was an extra car parked in the drive and by the time he reached the front door he realized that the lights in nearly every room were on. Did Max have company? Should he leave? His knuckles were rapping on the wood before he’d even finished the thought, but when the door swung open he was greeted by a woman about his sister’s age with a coif of blonde highlights and wearing a pink floral cocktail dress. She peered at him suspiciously and leaned against the doorframe with an attitude so palpable he could cut it with a knife. She didn’t say anything. She just sort of looked at him, and everything about her, from the purse of her lips to the cant of her hips, spoke volumes of her irritation and disappointment.

She had to be related to Max.

“I was looking for Max...” Morse’s eyes darted around her, down the crimson painted front hall and up the stairs which were lit by an overhead light. At the top he could see a shadow briefly break over the landing but there was no sign of the man himself.

“Which one’re you?” She asked with a tilt of her head. Morse got the impression that her annoyance was not with him. She didn’t look like the type of woman to get dressed up in a nice frock to sit around in a middle-aged pathologist’s cottage. That dress spoke of going out, not for answering the door like some sort of staff. This was _not_ where she wanted to be on Valentine's Day.

Why _was_ she there?

“Morse.”

“Oh, _you’re_ Morse,” She smirked, a cutting curve of baby pink lipstick, and then slung her hips and pulled up from her slouch to take a step back, “He’s upstairs with another of your lot.”

_What did that mean?_

Morse was halfway through opening his mouth to exclaim _'My Lot?!_ ', his lips parted and voice ready to raise in offense, when she interrupted him with a shrill yell of her own.

“Max!” She didn’t wait for an answer, “Morse is here-” and then her voice trailed off with a bored sort of mutter as she moved away from the door and towards the sitting room, “ _-for some bloody reason_.”

Morse was left standing in the foyer with the overwhelming instinct to leave but he’d already screwed up his courage enough to get this far, and he’d been announced, so it was too late to flee without making himself known. He’d been thrown to find anyone here besides Max. Regular visitor or not, Morse had been to the house enough times to know that it wasn't exactly a high traffic area or a bustling hub social activity. Being greeted at the door by any face besides Max’s own smiling one had him feeling very much like he’d come to the wrong address.

Morse gave the place another glance. The young woman had gone into the sitting room to his left, the dining room to his right was fully lit (with a stray handbag and coat tossed across the table), and the kitchen, foyer and stairs were also illuminated along with the hall on the second floor. It was quiet enough, which meant he hadn’t walked into some sort of party or function he was unaware of, but his eye was caught momentarily on the hall table which looked busier than usual. Next to the telephone, right on top of a pile of post, sat a scarlet envelope with a card tucked in and a single red rose wrapped in clear cellophane.

Morse’s mouth went a bit dry at the realization that Max had clearly been given some sort of Valentine’s gift. Was it a secret admirer? Perhaps a not so secret one? It could have been as simple as a generous coworker but Morse’s current uneasy mood took him straight to the worst case scenario.

His stomach sunk into his shoes. He shouldn’t have looked at all and he certainly shouldn’t have had the desire to pry, yet his body brought him closer and Morse leaned over for a peek. One finger extended to push back the envelope flap and he nearly reached out to flip the card open when Max's voice interrupted from the upstairs.

"Morse?”

“Yes,” Morse snapped to attention and swallowed around his nerves. His mind once again chewed over all of his motivations. He hadn't come by to be a spy. He hadn't come to create problems. He'd come to try and spend the evening with Max, to maybe be a little more overt with his affections on a day that made him think about them more than ever, but suddenly it felt much more complicated. If Max had a paramour, who was he to say anything? He had no right to be jealous. No right to pass judgement. It didn't change anything, in the grand scheme. Morse should chalk it up to another mistimed gesture on his part and treat this as a simple visit to his friend's home to see if he had company. Which he did.

Morse pressed on with a new determination to keep this all as normal as could be.

As he passed the sitting room on his way upstairs, Morse glanced after the young woman who had greeted him. She was seated across from a man of a similar age with sandy thinning hair who was also dressed for a night out. He looked like he was desperately trying to soothe her ire but she still shot him a particularly venomous look from her perch on the sofa, and by the man’s frown and lean and soft whispers, the glint of the wedding ring on his finger as he reached for her hand, Morse could tell they were husband and wife.

The off-kilter nature of this visit had all the makings of a mystery once he packed his own little hurts and yearnings carefully away. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree, there was a bickering married couple in the parlor, and now he could hear - albeit distantly - sounds of two people talking on the second floor. Had he found a body in the kitchen, it would have made for a proper Agatha Christie. Morse proceeded up the stairs and clicked off each light switch he passed. He wasn’t sure why, more of an instinct. He’d never once seen any of them on before, so the foyer was darkened first, and then the stairs, and by the time he was at the top, the hall. He ignored the lit up bathroom and instead headed towards the bedroom - a golden beacon at the end of the tunnel. That was where the voices were coming from and Morse once more felt himself skirting the edges of an anxious battle with his more logical mind in expectation of what he may find on the other side of the door. It was Valentine’s Day and Max was in his bedroom with… _someone_. Of course if it was intimate he was sure he wouldn’t have been invited up, nor would the young woman downstairs have directed him this way, but he couldn’t help some innate and ingrained sense of propriety and unease. Morse was drawn to the room like a moth to a flame, still not sure he wouldn’t end up burned, but upon reaching the doorway he had to blink a moment in disbelief. The last person he expected to see in Max’s bedroom, in front of a full length mirror and leaning towards Dr. Debryn as his tie was fixed, was Jim Strange.

“Hello matey!” Jim chirped as Max pushed the tie knot close in to his neck and finally stepped away. Strange straightened and turned towards his reflection, looking at Morse through it, before his eyes went back to his outfit in a quick and nervous flit, “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same. Good evening, Max,” Morse gave Max a glance and a restrained smile before looking back at Strange. They didn't appear to be up to anything unsavoury. Max hadn't a hair out of place and Jim's nervous shifting seemed aimed at his own reflection and nothing else.

"Morse," Max replied by way of his usual greeting. He was hanging some ties on the inside of a wardrobe door and gave a small smile over his shoulder that Morse tried direly not to put too much stock in. The boldly patterned ties he hung up must have been those that Jim rejected, as the one he had on was very sensible all around. Morse had never thought much about Max owning regular neckties before. Aside from funerals he’d never seen him in anything besides his dickie bows, but it seemed he had quite the collection.

“Almost every bloomin’ tie I own had a stain on it. Not sure if I’m going blind to not notice or if I’m just a slob..” Jim huffed and then sighed in displeasure as he shifted his tie pin and muttered under his breath, "Hell, what if I need glasses..?"

"One catastrophe at a time," Max glanced over his own specs as he finally closed the wardrobe door and turned to face them.

Morse suspected this wasn’t about ties at all.

Jim continued, “Dr. Debryn was good enough to give me a lender.”

“Big date?” Morse asked.

“Yes,” Max answered this time, and he gave Morse a pointed look of his own that confirmed the suspicion that Jim was all worked up about something much more important, “And he's nervous enough that he couldn’t tie the bloody thing for his shaking hands. Morse, has he not told you?”

Jim gave a guilty chuckle, fished in his pocket, and pulled out a small black velvet box, “I’m proposing tonight.”

“Are you really?” Morse knew he’d been dating someone but hadn’t much committed himself to tracking the relationship. Strange wasn’t exactly a playboy but once they’d gotten to a certain age he’d had less and less trouble finding decent girls looking for good husband material. He reckoned Jim was about as good a stock as they came, but Morse couldn’t have kept track of all of the dates and flings and on-and-offs if he’d tried. Besides, Strange had a tendency to ramble without need for response and Morse always had a hard time focusing when it didn’t explicitly interest or involve him. “Congratulations?”

“I think you’re supposed to say Good Luck,” Max corrected.

“Right,” Morse blinked, “Good luck. She’d be a fool to say no.”

"Thanks," Jim brightened. Despite Morse's fumbled well wishes, Strange always seemed very bolstered when he was complementary, not that he ever understood why the other man cared so much for his opinion.

They were interrupted by Max’s name being called from the first floor. It was that young man’s voice and the doctor let out a belaboured sigh, “That’ll be Bernard. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Morse could easily read Max's aggravation in his body language as he hurried off. He’d seen the man take that same stride around the morgue when too many questions were asked in too quick of a succession. He'd seen that hard line of mouth when he was interrupted or talked over. He'd seen those clenched fists and steely wrists at corpse-side while dealing with dense detectives and on the stand during inquests where he was pushed for opinions outside of his jurisdiction. Morse didn’t like seeing that irritation while the man was in his own house. Max at home should be languid and loose. Warm. Accommodating. When Max was at home he had nowhere to be and no one who could make him go faster.

“What're you doing here, Morse?” Strange’s tone held a faint note of suspicion and accusation and it was enough to grab Morse’s attention again.

He’d watched Max’s retreating back longer than he'd intended and turned back towards Jim to meet his eyes, “I was in the neighborhood.”

Morse hadn’t exactly prepared a story, he hadn’t thought to need one, but some part of his mind had been working on a running list of excuses since the moment he saw another car in the drive, “I had no plans after work so I thought, of all people, Max may be free tonight.”

“Just... well, it’s Valentine’s innit?” Jim sort of frowned in thought, then coming to a conclusion, answered his own question, “Commiserating bachelors, eh?”

There was some charm in Jim's deliberate ignorance and right now Morse found himself grateful for it, “Yes, something like that.”

He stuffed his hands awkwardly into his coat pockets and rocked on his heels when Strange looked back to the mirror one last time. Morse took the other’s distraction as an opportunity to look around. He’d never been in Max’s bedroom before, not that there was any reason why he would have, and as much as he told himself that such a thing was meaningless, he craved the details, every little nuance of Max he could absorb. Maybe the alleviation of his doubts lay somewhere here, a clue or thread that would give him the confidence to just make a go of it. Or maybe there would be the opposite, a crumb that led to the identity of Max's mystery valentine, something that would hammer home more definitively that he should ignore his romantic urges all together.

There wasn't, of course. At least not that he could see. No intimate photos, no treasured postcard stuck in the mirror’s frame, no stack of love letters on the dresser. And really, why would there be?

He was pleased to see that the room lacked the neat sterility of the morgue while also not being nearly as messy as he’d seen Max’s office at the hospital to be. It was homey and comfortable, with a few pieces of discarded clothing on the end of the bed, worn bedroom slippers half tucked into the closet below a tidy row of neatly pressed shirts and suits, and an ancient comforter crumpled lightly over the bed that looked like a family heirloom. The closest thing to a secret was an ash tray on the window sill with a tiny bit of ash and a smushed out butt end. The only true mysteries were the identities of the books on Max's bed stand, the ones Morse longed to thumb through. He wanted to know which was the most worn and dog-eared and what the thin paperback towards the bottom was that had multiple colored tabs sticking out of it. Did Max read poetry or science or medicine or fiction to wind him down at night? What did he open up on a lazy weekend morning? What books never left the bedside, what were his comfort reads and staples?

“Should’ve known better, seeing as he has company," Morse found himself unwilling to let the silence pull on too long for fear that he become too engrossed in the room around him. “I think someone gave him a little something as well. There was a card and flower by the door. Did you notice?" He gave Strange a testing glance, "Do you think we're keeping him from someone special? He looked a bit annoyed.”

“Seems alright to me,” Jim seemed to have decided that he was presentable enough and tore himself away from the mirror finally. He brushed past Morse and towards the bedroom door with an easy shrug, “Can’t say I was looking, matey. I'll be out of his hair soon enough anyway.”

Jim had always been a rubbish detective. Maybe it was better that he’d gone on a more administrative track.

“But you know, funny bugger or not, the doc’s got a good little set up here. Nice house, good job, good taste," Jim rested a hand on the door frame, “Corpses and all, everyone’s got to be someone’s type, eh? Could do worse.”

Morse glanced down at his shoes and back up, not sure he was ready to offer his opinion.

“I like to think there’s someone out there for everyone,” Jim clearly palmed the ring box in his pocket once again, "I'm hoping so anyway."

The larger man took himself down to the bathroom and paused to give Morse a crooked smile, "I bet someone even has a Morse shaped hole in them waiting to be filled."

Morse waited until Jim disappeared, a small disgusted look curling over his face from both the unintentional double entendre and the sentiment. He murmured under his breath, “Thanks so much for the vote of confidence.”

It was clear now that Morse would have to excuse himself as politely as possible and go home. All of his good intentions had gone belly up and he could only be mildly grateful that he’d left his romantic overtures in the car. Explaining to Jim Strange why he was at Max's on the biggest date night of the year with wine and chocolates would have been leagues more awkward than it had been already. Max was probably itching to get them all out. He probably had some equally intelligent, equally witty, equally put together professional type waiting in the wings to sweep in as soon as the coast was clear.

Morse moved down the stairs reluctantly and as he reached the first floor was passed by the man he now knew to be Bernard. The younger man flashed Morse an apologetic smile before he rejoined his wife in the sitting room, and Morse moved past as he followed the sound of gentle clinking, like ice hitting an empty glass. Morse found Max in the kitchen dropping cubes into a crystal tumbler and following them with a couple fingers of whiskey. Morse's intention was to say goodbye, to excuse himself as politely as possible, but when Max spotted him his face shifted into such a genuine expression of relief that every other thought fled his mind.

Max moved past him to quickly and quietly shut the swinging kitchen door and stand in front of it, blocking it for a few solid moments, before he let out what seemed like a long held breath and moving towards Morse.

His fingers rested at Morse’s elbow and he could feel it like a brand through his shirt as Max leaned in to speak to him softly, “I love my niece Margaret dearly, but she can be a handful.”

“Oh is that who that is?” Morse took the cue and also hushed his tone, “Wait, your niece calls you _Max_?”

“Yes,” Max actually rolled his eyes, squeezed Morse’s elbow gently, and moved back towards where he’d left his glass. His voice dropped even lower, “When she got married she decided that familial titles and honorifics were superfluous. Apparently when one reaches a certain age, we’re all simply friends. Do you want a drink?”

 _Yes. Absolutely._ Which was not what he said, “No, thanks I-”

Max hadn’t listened. He was pouring him a drink anyway, “Bernard is a decent chap. You know the type: academic, ambitious, one track mind. Which means it’s often elsewhere.”

“Ah,” A glass was pushed into Morse’s hand and the mystery began to pull itself together, “Was Valentine’s Day one of those things that slipped through the cracks?”

“Yes, exactly,” Max’s eyes widened emphatically and he took a slow sip of his glass. He then exhaled and Morse saw some of the tension leave his compact frame, “She thought they were going out for a romantic evening. He figured he could gloss it over by bringing them here because dear old Uncle Max is all alone on Valentine’s Day _and wouldn’t chinese and a film be lovely to keep him company_?” He huffed, “It’s apparently the grandest of all sins to want to be left alone today. Obviously.”

Morse smiled, “Obviously.”

Max waved a hand, “It’s all settled now, anyway.”

Max’s tension seemed to have finally left him, and while Morse was relieved to see it, he realized now that if the family plans had been settled then he most definitely did need to take himself home. He took another sip of his drink, finished off the miniscule amount of whiskey he’d been given, and set his glass down on the table.

“I should leave you to it then,” Morse pressed his lips into an unconvincing smile.

“Oh, really?” Max’s face creased into what Morse would have liked to think was genuine disappointment, “I thought maybe-”

“Max?” The swinging door pushed open and Margaret’s head popped in. The hall light, the one Morse had turned off, she had clearly turned back on again. Another mystery solved. She looked moderately less irritated but paused when she realized Morse was there. Her gaze jumped between the pair of them before settling on her uncle, “Pardon me. Can I have a word?”

Max once again looked at Morse with an apologetic smile, though this time he held up an insistent finger as if to ask for one more moment, “Hold that thought, Morse.”

And then Morse was alone again. Max disappeared with Margaret, off to the sitting room with his family, and Morse could hear Strange’s heavy feet on the stairs. The kitchen door was propped back open and he could see Jim stop in the foyer and look back down towards him just as there was a flash of lights through the front windows followed by a car horn. His ride had arrived.

“Oh, bloody hell, that’s me,” Strange took a massive breath and his large body puffed out nervously in the confines of his three piece suit, before he exhaled, “Wish me luck. Thanks Max!”

“Good luck!” Came Max’s answer.

Morse raised a hand in goodbye, was met with one of Jim’s own waves, and then he was also gone.

The time had come to save his pride. Jim was off, the family was planning their evening, and Morse's own fanciful ideas of how his night could have gone were solidly and thoroughly destroyed. He'd just go back to his flat with his wine and his chocolates and put on a record. Something despondent and therapeutically lovelorn. Already, as he made his way down the hall, he was debating which record to choose. It wasn’t so much about the song in this case, but the singer...

Morse paused momentarily in front of the sitting room door. Max, Margaret and Bernard were all standing together and the tension seemed to have completely disappeared. The couple didn’t look nearly so agitated now, Margaret smiling as they talked, and Max faced them with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Morse could see a chinese take-away menu between two of his fingers that twitched slightly when he noticed Morse making his way out.

“Have a good evening,” Morse said, and Margaret and Bernard chirped out ‘Nice to meet you’ and ‘You as well’. Max only furrowed his brow, and there was something that Morse thought looked like disappointment in his eyes again. It hollowed out his insides with a dull ache, but he was sure that it was only a twisted reflection of his own down and out feelings. He didn’t allow himself a pause to think about it. Two strides and he was past the sitting room door. Another couple steps and the white wooden front door was behind him as well.

Morse didn’t want to think about that look on Max’s face, an expression like a complaint, like he’d wanted to speak up and hold him there for just one second more. Morse just plodded along the path and past that accursed extra car in the drive and through the gently creaking front gate until he was once more standing beside the Jaguar across the road. Max’s fallen face had burned into the back of his eyelids and he couldn’t tell if the unpleasantness roiling in his gut was his own, was Max’s, or was completely fictional. Morse couldn’t even get in the car, he just stood beside it with his keys in his hand and took a deep breath. In and out. His ego had taken a few gentle blows tonight. It wasn’t an unknown feeling. Time to regroup and reorganize. Reset.

As Morse struggled with his keys in the dim, he heard Max’s front door open and a distant chatter of voices. There was a smattering of conversation over the jingle of keys and the clicks of car door handles and the creak of those doors opening.

_‘We’d better hurry.’_  
_‘It was very nice of him.’_  
_‘He wouldn’t have had to have done if you weren’t so bloody careless.’_  
_‘Did you know your Uncle had a revolving door of policemen to his house?’_  
_‘No, but I think I’ve seen that Morse on the news..’_

Car doors slammed shut and the sounds of the conversation muffled and the headlights sprung on as the Margaret and Bernard finally pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.

Before he even consciously registered it, Morse was back in front of Max’s door. The house lights inside were now clicking off one by one. The tiny bathroom window went dark. The dining room thirty seconds later. Morse had no plan, no excuse cooked up, and absolutely no self control. So of course he found himself knocking again.

Max opened the door and it was like a switch had been flipped. Morse's world returned to its proper axis. This was how it was to have played out all along. Him knocking full of good intentions, Max alone and answering the door with that lovely little half-smile, “Morse?”

“I, uh,” Words, he realized, would be required. Hell, the plan. What was it now? “I think I set my keys down somewhere.”

“Oh,” Max’s smile turned into his familiar pursed-lip thinking face and he seemed to run through some sort of internal catalogue before he spoke again, “I just went through and didn’t see them - but, of course, I didn’t know to look either. Come in. You’re welcome to rummage about.”

Max moved back a few feet to let Morse inside and finally flipped off the hall light for the second time that evening, “Margaret’s a menace on my electric. Turns on every bloody light in the house. She’s still afraid of the dark, can you believe?”

“I think I’m the last person to judge unreasonable fears,” Morse smiled small.

“A good point,” Max smiled back.

Yes. This was much more along the lines of what he’d expected earlier in the evening. Max, pleasant and accommodating, him looking for a good segue, fishing foolishly for ways to stay. Maybe Max would take pity on him, ask him to stick around out of polite sympathy when he floundered too long, like a mercy. Honestly, he would take what he could get. Now that he was here for a second time and the house was dim and quiet and blissfully private, Morse wasn’t sure if he could make himself leave again without saying something, without trying in the smallest degree to spend the remainder of his night with Max. But there was no accounting for his own cowardice either.

“Do you know where you left them?” Max tugged the end of his bow-tie and it was the first time that evening that Morse noticed he’d been wearing something different than he had in the morgue earlier in the day. A crisper shirt, a tie he had never seen in the same room as a corpse, and a deep blue waistcoat that looked soft enough to tempt one to touch. His earlier fear of some sort of romantic competition hadn’t been entirely dissuaded and Max’s very put together ensemble reminded him of what he’d dreaded all along, that Max had been keen to go out with someone this evening.

“Maybe upstairs?” Morse swallowed. He was fleeing Max’s space now more than he was following through. There was shame and disappointment in equal measure, as well as a shallow pang of anger that the other man looked oh so very good tonight - an effort made for someone else. Undoing his tie in front of him was particularly cruel.

“Well, feel free,” Max gestured to the stairs while a bent finger pulled the knot fully undone and he made quick work of his top collar button, “I’ll have a look round down here.”

Morse tore his eyes away to move up the steps. He felt a bit like a man going to the gallows, trudging up there only to support his lie, knowing he’d contributed to a disruption of Max’s evening, and the further appalling jealousy at the thought of Max making plans with anyone else. Morse really was a bit of a prick, wasn’t he? Mad over things out of his control, like a child who had a toy they weren’t even playing with taken out of their hands.

Once on the second floor he poked his head into the bathroom for appearances sake, and then proceeded down to Max’s bedroom, a place he would likely never see again. He stood in the middle of it, slid his eyes across the comfortable looking bed, the neat lines of hanging clothes, the rumpled comforter and dresser covered in little bottles and combs and brushes and pots of creams and miscellanea. Morse counted to a slow 10, and with another defeated sort of exhale, pulled his keys out of his pocket and tossed them in his hand.

He’d been so hopeful when everyone had left that he didn’t think to worry about what would come next. His lofty imaginings didn’t compensate for what had already been laid out. He couldn’t possibly hope for a night in with the good doctor. Not a night based on lies.

He’d have to leave again. Obviously.

_Stupid._

“Found them,” Morse called out. Yes, this could be put off. Another time. A better time. They’d find it eventually. One day he wouldn’t muss it all up. One day he would be free and so would Max and that unspoken thing between them would get, hopefully, a little more spoken.

Morse would have to wait for that day just as he’d waited for this one.

He made every effort to seem casual as he came back down the stairs and eventually wound his way back to the kitchen where Max was once more leaning by the counter and popping on the kettle.

“I must have set them down when I was talking to Strange.”

“How about him then? Recent promotion and now getting engaged? Ah, how they grow,” Max said with a teasing wistfulness, “I still remember when he was in uniform.”

Morse chuckled and tried not to think of Strange’s development. Once he’d put his nose to it, his rise through the ranks had been impressive. His newest milestone was just another aspect of life he’d gone and passed over Morse for.

“Tea?”

“Oh, I’m not sure I should-”

“You should stay,” Max interrupted, almost hurriedly, while Morse’s mouth still hung half open, “I’d actually had a dinner reservation-”

It was Morse’s turn to cut him off, “Yes, I- I saw your Valentine. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.”

“What?” Max’s face screwed up with genuine confusion.

“The flower and card,” Morse pointed, “In the hall.”

“Oh!” Max looked relieved and a bit amused, “Bernard’s attempt at reconciliation with Margaret. Very romantically acquired at a petrol station. She’s clearly forgotten it so that shows you what she thought of the effort.”

Morse felt something inside of him deflate in embarrassment, but also kindle with something else, “It’s not yours?”

“No,” Max smiled a bit, “I had actually gotten a dinner reservation in the hopes-” he met Morse’s eyes intently a moment, “-of finding someone to dine out with me tonight.”

There was something pointed in Max's look. Morse wasn't entirely dense, but he was having a hard time with the idea that Max may have been making plans of his own. Plans involving him.

“Then Margaret and Bernard showed up,” Max let out a genuinely exasperated sound and in a desperately relieved gesture, propped a hand on his hip and pushed the other hand through his hair. It was such a normal human gesture for anyone else, but from Max was entirely new and loose and ridiculously endearing, “Cocked that all up.”

“A dinner out would've been nice,” Morse evasively.

“Yes,” Max met his eyes again, “Maybe another time.” There was a quiet pause between them and Morse could feel it on his skin. It prickled with excitement and hope and he felt a smile tugging at the edges of his lips but he was still reluctant, and still stuck in a self-made rut of disbelief.

“Yes,” Max repeated, “Yes, well, I gave the reservation to them, Margaret and Bernard, to get them out of my hair.”

Oh. _Oh._

“So, if you’ve nothing on-” Max licked his lips, “If you don’t have other plans, could I interest you to a very low-key evening of take away and peace and quiet?”

“I think that sounds brilliant,” Morse exasperated in relief before that quiet set in again, them looking at each other, smiles touched on their lips, eyes locked, and Morse was sure that a second longer and he would be closing that infuriating distance to-

The sound of the kettle finishing it’s boil startled him and Max both, the pair of them jumping a bit in their skin before trying to immediately compensate to regain normality. Max’s hand dropped to the counter and the yellow menu he’d been holding earlier in the sitting room. He stepped forward and pressed it to Morse’s chest.

Morse’s hand lifted to receive it, but instead of taking the menu, his hand curled around Max’s and held it there, right over the thud of his heart, the nervous heavy thudding of his hopes made real and tangible and just within his reach.

There was no dragged out pause this time. Max stepped closer and lifted on his toes and kissed him and Morse curled his free arm around the other man’s waist and held. All of the years he’d hoped for it didn’t do it justice, the sheer overwhelming feeling, smell and taste and raw emotion. Max's lips on his, their mingling breaths, the warmth of their bodies pressed together. This, he realized, was what it was always supposed to feel like. When Max dropped down to his heels again, his ears were pink and he was smiling and Morse found that he was too.

“I didn’t forget my keys,” He admitted stupidly.

“I know,” Max laughed and then he pushed Morse’s gawking jaw shut with a careful forefinger, and caressed him gently across the jaw and chin. When Max finally stepped away, he had still left Morse with the menu, “Now pick something out and I’ll make the tea, and after it’s called in, I grant you absolute control over our entertainment for the evening.”

Morse’s brows lifted and he smirked. Max obviously meant music or television but he couldn’t help letting his mind wander in other directions. Coyly, “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“I believe you can handle it,” Max gave an equally coy glance over his shoulder.

Morse cracked a grin that he hid poorly with a dip of his chin to his chest, “Your confidence is overwhelming.”

Morse turned his eyes to the menu, though he couldn’t help watching Max over the top of it. It turned out that he hadn’t needed all his stupid plans after all. He would never match the conniving contrivances of Max Debryn. Max Debryn, too clever by far and a good catch for anyone with half a brain, according to Jim Strange.

Maybe there had been a Morse shaped spot in someone’s heart after all. He’d just been too dense to realize.

Several minutes later Max’s front door flew open and Morse was seen sprinting, pink cheeked, to the Jaguar across the road. He grinned like a fool, his tie undone and his jacket left behind. He had realized very suddenly, as the passenger door flung open, that he was going to need that wine and those chocolates after all.

**Author's Note:**

> A Valentine's fic just a bit too late.  
> If anyone is familiar with the show Mum, I definitely stole this premise from their Valentine episode..... thus the fic title is from the theme song.


End file.
